And Scene
by DarowdrynofArcadia
Summary: Cressida Vinea is a second year film major at the Capitol Art Institute, and her mid-term project isn't even started. Desperate to find a subject, she wanders to a part of the campus that always helps her think and hears a haunting voice on the way. Who is the mysterious Mockingjay, and why does Cressida want to know more about her so much?
1. Opening Credits

**A/N:** I am not all that used to writing AU stories, so please bear with me as I get this one started. I will try to make it live up to the potential I have in my head, though someone to beta me and help me make sure it stays coherent would be appreciated. :)

Hunger Games and all affiliated characters are of course intellectual and actual property of Suzanne Collins. I make no money from writing anything here at all, though I do wish she'd take some of my ideas seriously. Her agent still hasn't called me back about the rewrite of the trilogy in favor of Katniss' true orientation.

* * *

Fall has come to Panem, the towering trees on the campus of the Capitol Art Institute changing to all the colors of red, orange, and gold imaginable. This has always been my favorite time of year, though I never have actually managed to give a good answer when asked why. I usually just say I love it because I do, and because it is beautiful, so what other answer do I need? The truth of the matter is a little less simple though. I love the smell of the air, the way the leaves smell as they fall and gather on the grass. The temperature of the season as it cools and encourages closeness with other people, the way it brings us all together in coffee shops and theaters and bookstores. There is a compelling feeling as the world goes to sleep a little at a time, something I have always wanted and tried to capture on film that just never seems to translate.

Being here in Panem makes the season even better. There is just something about this small college town that makes fall feel... perfect. I am not sure I will ever be able to aptly put it into words more succinctly than that. The tall trees of nearly every deciduous species that grows in this part of the country, the relaxed atmosphere on campus, the days that are more sunny than gloomy. Even the rain seems calmer here, the smell of petrichor and damp vegetation permeating the humid air after each shower.

It is that very fact however that has led to my current dilemma. I have been in classes for about three months, Halloween is just around the corner, and I still have not even begun to ponder what I am going to do for my midterm project. Unfortunately for me, I am a film major and my project is due in about seven weeks. If you don't know much of anything about film, that means that unless I have something fall in my lap soon, I am going to be scrambling to cobble together something that resembles a coherent story and hoping that it will be good enough to pass. This project is worth half of my overall grade. I am an idiot for putting it off, and yet now that I know I have less time to work than would be ideal, I cannot even come up with a single idea. My mind is empty, and let me tell you, that is unbelievably frustrating.

Last year around this time, I only had to worry about my Advanced Literature paper, a ten page project with references of where I pulled my facts. You know, standard college student fare, nothing truly distressing or worthy of worry. I found a secluded corner of the campus to sit down with my laptop and I would write for hours, sometimes actually working on my paper and most of the time working on ideas for screenplays of projects I would like to do once I graduate. This year however I am learning just how tenuous that dream of mine is, and not a single one of the ideas I had last year are adaptable to my midterm project _this_ year. My worry is compounded by the knowledge that my roommates are all working together on a joint project that I was too proud to join, a fact that I am lamenting more and more every day.

Messalla offered to work together, but like the stubborn fool that I am, I turned him down. He's a good guy really, and an amazing roommate, but I guess I see him more as a follower than a leader. A producer instead of a director, perhaps. Our friends Castor and Pollux are on the other side of the major from us, both going for photography and filmography. Seeing the orange haired twins has always made me smile, but now it causes a mild anxiety attack because I feel in my gut that they are making progress on their short and laughing at my declining to work with them. I imagine they think I was being snooty and aloof, turning down working with peasants when I am so obviously above them in social order, and though I have known all three of them since freshman orientation last year and should know better, I cannot seem to get that idea of condescension out of my mind.

My head wrapped in self-defeating thoughts, I shuffle through the milling crowds of freshmen and the cliques of the second years and up. The commons is too busy, too social for me to be able to think properly, and I am desperately attempting to escape from it so that I can seclude myself among the trees and relax. The students here are all too happy, too loud, too carefree, and why should it be any different? They are not the ones that have a massively important project that they neglected to begin when they should have. Finally however, I spot my refuge through a gap in the throng and my heart leaps with relief.

A frisbee whizzes past my eye, I dance around a group of large and muscular men as they wrestle for their oblong leather ball, a peleton of cyclists narrowly avoids a collision with my person, and then I am clear. A joie de vivre buoys my spirits and plasters a smile on my face, my long legs surging beneath me to carry me into the trees at a pace one would have to stretch the definition of walking to encompass. My eyes flick about in search of a favorite seat just as a mossy and ancient trunk that fell years ago against a rival tree comes into view. Here in the forest thicket proper, I am at peace and I can finally let go of the stresses of campus life.

My lungs expand with a cleansing breath and I sigh happily, alone and free of- what was that? I am alone out here and yet I could swear that I just heard- there it is again! I definitely heard another human being out here, someone else hiding from the press of people. I take a moment to process what I am listening to before I decide that the owner of the voice is female and likely a music major. With pitch and tone as on key and perfect as she is, there is no way that she is here at Capitol and not pursuing music, or if she is then she needs to stop whatever she _is_ doing and go for music.

I slip off of my perch and slowly start to walk in the direction I think the singing is originating from, trying to learn everything I can about her from the sound of her voice alone. The words are from a song originally sung by The Beatles, though I do not believe that John Lennon or Paul McCartney ever sounded quite like this while singing All My Loving. Something about the quality of her smoky alto sends shivers down my spine, though I am unsure what would cause that reaction. It is not one that I am used to in any setting, let alone while being a creeper and listening to a girl I have never met sing. In my mind's eye, she takes the form of Lauren Bacall, and if she looks anywhere near as beautiful as she sounds then I must find a way to use her in my project.

After a seeming eternity, I round the base of a massive oak and there she is. I have been so focused on the sound of her voice that I did not even notice the sound of a cello being played to accompany her. Now though, when I can see her long and dexterous fingers plying the strings and teasing out soulful notes, I am transfixed. That shiver from earlier makes its presence known again and I still cannot discern what is causing it.

She must have heard me walking through the leaves though I was attempting to be stealthy, because she looks right at me. She is surprised to see me, her silvery eyes are wide and very expressive, but she continues singing into the eye contact and suddenly it feels very personal. _"Close your eyes and I'll kiss you, tomorrow I'll miss you, remember I'll always be true. And then while I'm away, I'll write home everyday, and I'll send all my loving to you."_ There is a quality in her gaze that I find myself unable to name and it is tying my stomach in knots. I am usually pretty smooth when meeting new people, but this time I feel as though my tongue were tied in a complicated weave and numbed for good measure.

For a few moments we keep contact, then she smiles and looks down, fingers flicking the clasps of her case as she lovingly returns her cello to its home. Then she is staring at me again, that enigmatic little smile playing around her lips, and I realize that this is the first time I've noticed an expression around _anyone's_ lips. When she speaks, her voice is a little huskier and so much richer, a little bit of a southern twang in her words though she seems to be attempting to keep it down. "Are you jus' going to stand there or are you going to speak to lil ol' me?" I grin in what I feel must be a very sheepish and somewhat pathetic manner, and suddenly I cannot keep my mouth shut.

* * *

I slip into my dorm that evening, totally unaware of what I spoke to that girl about, but as the door clicks shut behind me a single fact makes itself known: I forgot to ask her for her name. I spent several hours among the trees with her, and not only did I fail to do any work on my project, but I failed to obtain her name at any point in that conversation. I have trouble remembering what exactly we spoke of, but I know that we covered many things.

I do remember one thing though. She told me that she was the cellist of a string quartet rock band, something I was not even aware existed. I get the feeling that they are rather rare, and I may only ever see this girl and her band fill that unique niche. She told me that she favored covering The Beatles when they were not performing their own songs, but that anything can be played. She had a fervent and happy look on her face as she described the feeling of being on stage in front of a crowd, the way the roar of their fans when incited by the violinist, who she claims is a shameless exhibitionist, can make her soar. She even discussed her bandmates.

The showy violinist she called Johanna, though she only used her full name once. There was a bassist that I think she said was named Madge, and the laughter in her voice as she described the size difference between the instrument and the woman playing it was a little infectious. The last member plays the viola for them, but I have to admit that I have never actually heard of very many who do. She told me that the girl's name is Delly Cartwright, and that her boyfriend had nursed a crush on her best friend for years before Delly finally caught him by the mouth. My southern acquaintance hinted that the "best friend" in that scenario was her, which puts her with Delly and Madge who she claimed both came from slightly more affluent circumstances. In point of fact, the only one she suggested was not from the same town as the others was Johanna, who might have been from Portland but she is not sure.

In return, I told her about my ambitions to become a famous director and create masterpieces of filmic history spanning every genre. She seemed politely interested at first, but I think I actually hooked her when I recanted my current troubles with a mid-term project. There was a glint in her eye that I have a hard time naming, but I feel that perhaps it meant something. Maybe even something good in my future, though what I need and what I want have perhaps never been so different. I do not know what I want personally, but as far as this mysterious cellist is concerned I want to spend more time in coffee shops and bookstores and quiet wooded clearings with her, conversing for hours and learning everything about her. I need to document her music, and... Oh my, I think I just figured out what I need to do for my mid-term. I need to film this woman playing her cello and singing, perhaps even coax her story out of her, learn why music is so intrinsically enmeshed into her soul.

* * *

For three days, I have been wracking my brain in search of the perfect way to approach the cellist and politely ask, meaning beg, her to allow me to film her and maybe even capture her life in a jar and show it to the world. For three days I have been attempting to find a way to convince her to help me with my project, shoving the tiny complication of not knowing her name to the side until I have solved the necessary portion of my new obsession. The question of how to actually track her down is not big enough at the moment to merit my attention, and yet I am thinking perhaps it should be.

A knock at my door followed by the intruder opening it and waltzing in without an invitation or a "how do you do" pulls me out of my head to notice Messalla flopping his gangly self onto my bed, a saucy grin on his mocha face. "Hey girlfriend, you crack the case yet?" His stereotypically flamboyant greeting needles me enough that I cannot stop my eyes from rolling, and at the same time I grin in response to his effervescent attitude. A self-deprecating chuckle and a shake of my head is the only answer I deign to give him, and still he does not let the smile drop. If anything, it transforms into a sneaky smirk and suddenly I am worried about what is on his mind.

"Then I have just the thing for you. There is a new club opening up, and by club I mean bar not actual clubby-club like New York club or anything, and the opening night act is to die for. At least that's what I've heard, and maybe there will be some eye candy for my favorite ace to convince her to change her mind about the yummy yummy world of gymnastics, if you know what I mean." The wave of his hand is so energetic and so very gay that I laugh before I can stop myself, and he only shows more teeth. Now I know for sure that he is trying to play the rainbow that he is and exasperation takes over, a haughty and withering glare leveled at him. It does nothing to faze him, not that I am in any way surprised by that.

"Look Cressy-poo, you have been locked her in this dungeon for days now, and I know it isn't for your project. That means either you've been throwing yourself a Debby Downer pity party, or you've been trying to give yourself hairy palms that entire time." I interject here, indignation pitching my voice into a squeak, "You know that's a myth, right? And anyway, why do you care what I may or may not have been doing?"

His eyeroll is so expressive and full of sass that I find myself amazed that I do not have a hand print on my cheek from his non-physical bitch slap. "I care because we're besties, okay? You took care of me when we met, I would be totally failing as your friend if I didn't try to do the same for you. Are you coming tonight or not? And before you answer, remember that an answer of no will only be ignored and you will be dragged to the bar anyway."

My hands fly into the air and I cry, "Fine! I'll go to damn bar, just for you, are you happy?" The squealing and clapping of hands answers that one for me, and Messalla begins chattering at a mile a minute going on about what I should wear and how I should do my make up. I almost manage to tune him out when he slows down enough to declare, "Cress, you _have_ to shave away your hair. Like, I haven't seen your tattoos in months girl, you have to show them off again!"

The tattoos he means are the vines that I had done at sixteen. Everything that would normally be covered by hair on the right side of my head is inked up with ivy, not to mention the side of my neck and my arm, but I have let my hair grow in again to cover them since I learned that my only boyfriend ever was only trying to get me into bed because he liked tattooed chicks. The debacle with him, a weedy and shifty loser by the name of Seneca Crane, convinced me that perhaps it was best to hide that side of myself. This time though, this one time for Messalla, perhaps it wouldn't be such a bad idea to show them again.


	2. First Scene, Act One

**And lo, their faith was rewarded, for that which was long in coming had finally descended unto them.**

 **HI! Those of you who actually watch this poor neglected fic, I apologize to you for leaving you wanting for so long. It is finally winter up the the north, and I can think again. That, and I have wonderful writing music I can stream endlessly now. I have missed this story a bit, I must say. I just... I need to do it right, and I haven't been inspired for a while. I hope that changes now, since this is historically my most prolific time of year.**

* * *

Crisp autumn air slaps roughly against the bare side of my skull, a cool breeze stealing the warmth from my freshly shaven skin and mocking my attempt to keep warm. I shiver with the inadequacy of the rough brown leather jacket I wear, a gift from a father I haven't seen in about two years, ever since I left home to run away from his marital issues with my mother. It is all I have of him now, and I can't seem to bear the idea of replacing the love and affection he gave to me with harsh words and strained silences at forced dinners.

 _I pirouette in the dark,_ _I see the stars through a mirror._

So instead, I tug my lonely treasure closer around me and shimmy around in the clothes that Messalla practically threw at me for his whole "drag her to the bar" escapade. I still have trouble accepting that he talked me into this, and more trouble still that he managed to talk me into actually wearing the tight black stone-washed jeans that have hidden in the back of my drawer since the one and only time I wore them. That night lives in infamy, since that was the night that I learned just how much on an inescapable ass Seneca was. On a date he took me on, I find him wrapped up in some bimbo blonde outside the restaurant. This, of course, only after _I_ had to pay for our overpriced and much too small meal because he had wasted all his money on something that he wouldn't confess to.

 _Tired mechanical heart, b_ _eats 'til the song disappears._

The shirt though is something Messalla dragged out of whatever corner of fashion he resides in, where diaphanous tanks with cinched in waists are killer, and pictures of out-dated curios are kitsch and hip. Still though, it is a nice shirt, and the way he grinned after I slipped it over the perky push-up that he literally had to force me into tells me that it's my shirt now. Considering my friend, I turn about to look at him as he trails lazily behind me and ask wearily, "Where the hell are we going again? I know you said this place is opening up tonight, but you never actually said anything about it."

Messalla at least has the grace to look a little chagrined but bounces back, chipper as ever in his sly reply, "We're just about there actually. See that little not-so-little thing of metal and concrete? That's 13, the new bar in town. It's actually supposed to be monstrous in size, but most of it is underground. I heard from this guy I know that the sound system they have is top of the line, and they still almost don't need it because it's built in such a way that the acoustics of the joint are incredible. The act they have tonight, that might be a good thing. They just came back from their first tour a few months ago, which is pretty amazing considering that they are a string quartet. I heard they call themselves Mockingjay Revolution, but I have no clue what the hell a mockingjay even is."

I just about stumble when he spills the identity of the band playing tonight. I never got the name of her band from my mystery girl, but I do know that they are exactly what is being advertised here, a string quartet that must have some touring experience if the way she spoke of being on stage is any indication. If it's them, if it's _her_ , then I can guess where the name came from. I have a vague remembrance of her mentioning loving the sound of singing jays and wishing that there was one that had the markings of a mockingbird. Now I have all kinds of hope and this rumbling buzzing sensation in my gut that I put down to wanting to ask this nameless girl if she will let me film her, but I have a feeling that there is something more that Messalla would have to say about it.

 _Somebody shine a light,_ _I'm frozen by the fear in me._ _Somebody make me feel alive a_ _nd shatter me._

I turn myself about and pick up the pace, needing to get inside and see if it really is her, to do... _something_. I'm not sure what, but there is something that I know I must do and it requires that this be the place where I will meet her again. I need her to be here, I need to hear that southern husk again and have it give me a name this time, a name I can use to ask many questions and hopefully receive many answers. I have no clue what questions those will be at the moment, but I want to ask them all. I call urgently over my shoulder, "Come on Messi, hurry up! You wanted to come so bad, stop dragging and let's get in there!"

At the door I almost find myself tripped up when a big blond meatwall holds out his arm to bar my way, but then I hear the familiar chirp of my mocha-skinned comrade take to the air.

"Let her through Gloss, she's the one who was already paid for. Cress, just ignore the armbar, go under and through."

A light shove in my back and I do as I am bidden, ducking under and around this Gloss that Messalla is entirely too familiar with and trying not to think of why that is. Inside the massive steel doors I find a long and somewhat steep stairwell descending towards a bright and warm light that is, thankfully, only one color. I was somewhat concerned that it would still be the typical dance club, but it would seem that those fears are unnecessary.

Traipsing down those stairs and into the light just brings me to another somewhat startling realization: I am on the fourth level of a huge concert venue and bar. I had heard him tell me that it was supposed to be massive, but I thought that Messalla was simply exaggerating, or that he'd been misinformed, because who would build a place like this entirely underground, right? Except someone did, and now I'm here and much too far from the stage to see anything. Thankfully it seems fairly empty still, so I pull a kid move and slide down the banisters to reach the bottom level faster and slide out onto the dance floor. On stage I can see the sound system hookups and other bits of equipment, but for the moment my mystery woman is not there.

The woman who _is_ there is the picture of a stereotypical lesbian, if far prettier than most people would imagine in their head. Messy brown hair cut into a carefully disheveled mess and capped with a black beanie precariously situated over it, slightly asymmetrical eyebrows knit cutely together as she tries to rearrange the speaker setup. A worn red plaid flannel with the sleeves rolled to her elbows, the last couple buttons hooked, leaving most of her black ribbed wifebeater exposed. Jeans that look like they've seen far better days, actual wear patterns and sawdust decorating them as the frayed hems trail behind black Converse hightops that are more ducttape and string than actual shoe at this point.

I'm so busy absorbing her and wondering if she is one of the girls mentioned amongst the trees that I don't hear light footfalls come up behind me until a voice that I know almost as well as my own from remembering it so often recently tickles my ear.

"She is a sight, isn't she? So many adjectives, so little time."

 _So cut me from the line, d_ _izzy, spinning endlessly._

I stop my heart from leaping out of my chest and manage a casual turn to look at _her_ , the one that has consumed my thoughts and monopolized all of my time with her very existence. I try for mysterious grin, probably don't manage it, and simply hope that my voice is far less nervous than I am. "Hey there. Am I going to get a name, or are you going to disappear into the trees again?"

She laughs in such a way that I am sure she wasn't expecting to, and it is all the more perfect for it. In my mind I can see her dressed in a loose dress, the hem just short of her knees as it blows in the wind, that very same laugh spilling from her lips as film rolls to capture it. I don't know what caused it in that daydream, but something about that laughter makes my heart skip and fills me with that buzz again, along with a craving for _more_.

"Well now, aren't we jus' a de _man_ ding little thang? Since it seems so important to you, my name that is, it's Katniss. I'd rather you just call me Kat though, I don't exactly like being named after a darn plant."

I flip it over in my mind, tasting on my tongue and trying to engrave it on ever fiber so I never forget the name of the woman I wish to make immortal on film, and hold out my hand. "Pleased to meet you Katniss. I'm Cressida, and I'd love to know you well enough to call you Kat. If you're offering, that is." For some reason, that incites a blush to creep up her lightly tanned skin and across those perfect cheekbones that I didn't realize I felt so strongly for. She still shakes my hand, and there is a smile on her face that seems just a bit embarrassed and yet very pleased as it sits on her lips, marking another moment among moments that I seem to be collecting where I notice the way her mouth moves.

 _Somebody make me feel alive a_ _nd shatter me._

She is about to speak again when there is a crash of sound intruding from the outside world and her eyes, _those perfect eyes with their silver and smoke_ , flick over to the stage to answer a question that she obviously heard and I did not. I do notice though that the handshake is no longer a shake and has morphed into simply holding her hand between us, a state of affairs that I miss the moment it ceases to be when she steps away with regret in her eyes and a few whispered words on her lips.

"Enjoy the show Cress. I think you'll love it."

* * *

All night long I have listened to four women sing songs that I have heard a hundred thousand times and never gave mind to, only to hear them in a new way here. I have watched as the girl in the flannel, confirmed to be Johanna Mason when she came down during one of their breaks to buy me a drink and flirt in a way that was truly adorable if ineffective with me, danced about on stage and seemed to put her very soul into the pull of her bow. I have been mesmerized as the two blondes with their tiny frames and gentle, plain faces lit up from within and became breathtaking as they teased out an original piece. I have witnessed all four of them come alive and smile in a way that tells me this is their life, their one true passion.

Most of all though, I have watched the goddess that I found again by chance. I have committed to memory the elegant lines of her strokes with that bow on her cello strings, the heart-stopping light dancing just under those long eyelashes, the full richness of her voice as she paints her words on the air. I have reaffirmed my desire to put her to film, to capture just a piece of this creature for myself, and every moment I have watched her or heard her I have had the buzzing in my mind and the stutter in my heart growing stronger and stronger.

I know that I should feel afraid, no one else has ever had this effect on me, but all I can feel is wonder and the stirrings of something I have not felt for years. I remember a time when I was just into my teens, still awkward and gawky, when I felt something like this around one specific person. I wanted to capture them on film too, at the time that meant photographs, and it was such a confusing time that I don't even remember if they were male or female. All that mattered was the feeling, and how it didn't last when I found that they thought I was weird. _Creepy_ , they said. _That weird creepy girl with the camera._

This time though, there is none of that. I am still confused, but at least this time the person making me feel whatever this is seems to like me well enough and wants to know me more. The night is wearing old, the hours are passing by, but for as long as Katniss is here, this is where I want to be. Messalla tried to tease me about her once he saw where my eyes rested more often than not, but all he got was silence and a smile. I don't know why I smiled, but it felt right.

She looks right at me while I am pondering that very fact, and there is a _zing_ that shoots straight through my chest, painful and at the same time ecstatic. She has this odd little half-smile on her face, and she's not looking away from me as she stands up, places her cello in its case, and steps up to the microphone that Johanna has just abandoned. "All right, ladies and gents, time for us to wrap up the night. The hour is late, the musicians are tired, and some of us have class in the mornin'. Before we go though, one more song, and this time it's for someone specific. You'll know who they are when you see them, b'lieve me."

Katniss is still looking right at me, _through_ me, and there is something I cannot identify as it hides behind those mesmerizing irises. That smoky, velvety voice fills the air as she walks slowly towards me, every word racing straight to me and speeding my heart.

 _"Oh yeah, I'll tell you something_ _I think you'll understand._ _When I say that something,_ _I wanna hold your hand._ "

Every stride she takes has a purpose, and it pushes my pulse higher every second until I am sure that I will die. Then, contrary to all reason, my heart slams back down to a rhythm only slightly faster than normal as she takes my hand in hers and pulls me to my feet. Slowly, deliberately, she drags me out onto the floor where everyone on four levels can see me, and with the microphone in one hand she holds me close with the other as she continues to sing.

" _Oh please, say to me you'll let me be your man. And please, say to me you'll let me hold your hand._ "

I can't really comprehend this, is she asking me out? Is she asking me with a song in front of a lot of people to go out with her? I can feel the flush that has been somewhat omnipresent all night long reach up to my cheeks and my nerves are screaming at me to run for the hills, but I stay. I stay where I am, swaying slightly with Katniss as she leads me in a slow dance to the song her voice is still pouring out, enjoying the warmth of her body pressed against mine in a way that I didn't know I could. It feels so amazingly fulfilling to be this close to another human being, and I have deprived myself of this because in general I am uncomfortable around them.

With Katniss though something is different, and I get the feeling that I will be spending a lot of time figuring out what that something is and why it matters so much. For now, I relish in the closeness that I am allowing for the first time in my life. I get lost in the sound of her voice, the scent of her invading my senses and filling them with dust, pine, and wax, and absorb the feel of her body wrapped around mine. Her height is just about even with mine though she is an inch or so shorter, making her around five foot eight. In my boots, that puts her at the perfect height for my arms to rest comfortably on her shoulders, a fact I take advantage of. So lost in these sensations am I that I miss most of the song until she slows down on the last few lines, tightening her arm as she croons them.

" _Yeah, you've got that something I think you'll understand. When I feel that something, I wanna hold your hand...I wanna hold your hand...I wanna hold your hand...I wanna hold your hand._ "

I am no longer consciously controlling my mouth or my thoughts, and my tongue lets them tumble out into the open. Unfortunately for me, that means right into the microphone that is mere inches from my lips as I whisper, "Okay."

One word, one tiny, insignificant word, and my entire world is turned upside down while I'm being held by a girl whom I've just recently become aware of as she sings me a song. I don't know what is happening, what I am feeling, or how to deal with any of this, but I do know one thing.

Katniss is lovely when she smiles for real.

* * *

 **A/N: So, almost six months to the day from when I posted chapter one, here is chapter two. I know that there were a few that had faith, and for that I thank you.**

 **I must admit, I've spent the last half year delving into stranger and stranger fanships, not to mention all kinds of different fics. So for all of those out there _writing_ the stories I've been reading, thanks.**

 **Now, I must plug some writers! Coz y'see, these people have given me things to read that are better than my petty scribbles.**

 **FIRST, we have Johanna's Motivational Insults, responsible for many great stories but currently writing Loyalty, an AU Joniss fic for those who want a taste of the forbidden love between a Peacekeeper and a civilian.**

 **SECOND, we have Silently Watches with a Harry Potter fic(series) that is to kill for. I'd say die for, but his protagonist might take it literally and steal a few of you. At the moment, he is writing Coronation of the Black Queen, third installment of his saga and well worth the read.**

 **THIRD, and last, we have Quartermass. Also going with Harry Potter, though throwing in some crossovers here and there. Just recently he started In Spite of Appearances, the sequel to his fic In Spite of Obstinate Men. For anyone who is a mystery buff, those are both titles taken from quotes attributed to Hercule Poirot, one of Agatha Christie's more enduring characters. These stories ought to appeal to some of you.**

 **Now, if I'm honest here, I have very little control over where this story will go or what will happen. I'm sure a few of you know that we are often subject to our muse in some capacity, however in my case that is the only way I can write and so I often have a bare outline of where I'd like to go, and my muse decides whether to pay attention to that or drag me in the total opposite direction. We'll see what happens here!**

 **Songs in this chapter were "Shatter Me" by Lindsey Stirling feat. Lzzy Hale and "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" by The Beatles(obviously).**


End file.
